Man of the Hour
by Chou
Summary: Rex Tyler's thoughts as he battles Ragdoll's army to save the Opal.


Disclaimer: I don't own Hourman, and I don't own the story this is based on, which was written (and very well written) by James Robinson, but the words, those are mine.   
  
Man of the Hour  
by Chou  
  
Ted's call came in yesterday. To be honest, I had wondered when it might. Opal's crime wave had been making the news all over, thanks to that blood stained little maniac The Ragdoll. I wanted to help for a while, but it's Ted's city, Ted's call. That's how we play it in the mask business. Friends are always there if you need them, but they won't go looking for your trouble. We look for enough trouble on our own.  
  
Ragdoll had an army, his own little cult. And that night, the night Ted called us in, they had jobs going all over the city. Kidnappings, robberies, and God knows what else.   
  
Chuck McNider took a kidnapping case, twin kids, two innocent little girls. Chuck always had a soft spot for kids. Comes with being a doctor, I think. The case seemed custom built for him, or maybe Wes Dodds, if Wes had been there. So Chuck went out into the night and came back with two little bundles of joy.   
  
Ted, Alan, and Jay went to the heart of the problem, as usual. They were going to storm Ragdoll's base and take the bastard head on. It sounded like a hell of a job, and I almost wish I had volunteered. Of course, it ended sweet and sour. They stopped the Ragdoll…they stopped his heart in doing it. Don't know which one did it, and I don't care. Ragdoll had it coming, but still, if it's one thing we're all against, it's people ending up dead.   
  
Ragdoll's final big idea for the night was to have a not-so-small army of his brainwashed punks march across a bridge to a retirement community. Why? I don't think I want to know, but I bet it was going to be bloody. But stopping an army single handed…that was right up my alley, so I went out with a grin on my face and the words "I will." etched on my brain.  
  
Damn, but there was a lot of them. Over a hundred, easy. Funny thing was, none of them were armed. Not even a knife. It was a shame…that would've been more of a challenge.  
  
I stood there, hands on my hips, a nice summer breeze flapping my cape behind me. The mob shuffled up, came to a stop. They weren't sure what the hell was happening, but I can bet they knew it wasn't good.  
  
"Come on then." I barked, and out came the Miraclo. "Let's get this done."  
  
I cracked my knuckles, they charged, and the fight was on, one fall, no submission, hour time limit.  
  
12 minutes. I hear teeth loosen as my foot connects with a punk's chin. I toss another over my shoulder one handed and don't even bother to watch him land as my fist thunders across yet another's jaw. They still keep coming, and I let them come right into my fists.  
  
27 minutes, 18 seconds. They almost overwhelm me with the sheer press of bodies, even if I don't feel the blows. Much. I start fighting dirty, elbows, knees, headbutts being thrown to clear me some space. There's not much of a let up, but it's enough for me to grit my teeth and throw myself into the fray twice as hard.   
  
39 minutes. I'm back to just swinging my fists and coming up with knuckles full of jaw. My heart's like a big band drum solo, fast and hard and full of life, and I throw my punches to match it beat for beat. I'll give this mob credit for one thing, they don't give up. Doesn't mean they win, but it gets them as much credit as I give scumbags.   
  
45 minutes, 15 seconds. Time's almost gone, but so's the mob. I lift one of them clear off the ground with a hard left cross and slug the one he lands on for good measure.   
  
56 minutes. Two of them left, running out of time.  
  
57 minutes. Gotta take both at once.  
  
58 minutes. The punch is straight, hard, and true, and even as I feel the power start to go, it still takes one out. The other runs solar plexus first into my foot, and drops.  
  
59 minutes. I stand there, sweat trickling into my eyes under my hood, my breathing barely a gasp, and my heart ends the drum solo and goes back to the waltz. That breeze sure feels cool in a good way, a nice way.  
  
And I smile, because victory, and the thrill of getting there are the best damn tastes in the world, and my smile grows even wider somehow.   
  
I see the cops coming to pick up the garbage, and I begin my long, slow, savory trek back to Ted's, smiling wide at life and my love of it.  
  
It feels so good. So good to be alive.  
  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
There you have it, my first person POV of Rex's part in saving Opal from Ragdoll. I love Rex's part of that story, even if I do wish Tony Harris had done the art.   
  
Something about Ted's remarks about Rex later: "I was so proud of him, so proud to know him." hit something deep inside of me for some reason. Like any good feeling with heroes, I couldn't describe it if I wanted to, but it's there.   
  
I think I'll dedicate this to James Robinson, for the stories he told and how damn good they were, and to anyone who's faced impossibly large odd and still come through a smiling winner. 


End file.
